Liverpool Bay by Seán Street

Liverpool Bay

The voice of a hand on my
arm. Less of me to answer
now, watching from here, waiting,
your ship rising from morning
towards the sunrise as two
great birds flew out to greet you,
took you with them through dawn light
past a shoreline to a skyline,
from a desert to a pool
of life’s possibilities.

The dialogue of breathing.
Where West pours in on the tide,
the exhale of East answers.
Water swims with memory,
but when I ask, it only
whispers to shingle. Too much
to question an ocean,
too many conversations
murmuring here at once
in mid-flow. Too much to ask.

The dialogue of breathing.
How we come and go, we tides.
It is what seas make us do.
We come and go – breath and tides –
body heat’s ebb under moons,
the convection of spirit.
We’re printed here together
somewhere across all this deep.
Listen for voices, further
out each time the moon rises.

The voice of a hand on my
shoulder, and it’s you again
out there on the morning sea,
forever coming towards
me, and the city reaching
for the ploughed space in water
left by your lost ship’s grey ghost,
past a shoreline to a skyline,
forever coming back home,
coming in on the bay’s tide.

Liverpool Bay by Seán Street was commended in the Sentinel Annual Poetry Competition 2015 judged by Afam Akeh.